I Am Not Pansy Parkinson
by BlackBloodedMagic
Summary: I am not Pansy Parkinson. I mean, how could you possibly confuse us? Aside from the numerous IQ points which differ between us, and her, frankly alarming, range of sneers and taunts, I will just never be Pansy Parkinson. Because Pansy Parkinson is perfect. Not in a personality way, clearly, but physically? Yeah. ...What a bitch.


**I Am Not Pansy Parkinson**

**Disclaimer: I do not claim to own Harry Potter or any characters used in this fic.**

**Warnings: There's quite a lot of swearing and some OOCness in this fic; don't like it then don't read.**

**I hope you enjoy it :) Any constructive criticism is extremely welcome. :)**

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I am not Pansy Parkinson. Okay, okay, I know what you're thinking, well, roughly. Well, no, I _think_ I do, because you can never really know what someone's thinking, can you? I'm guessing it's something like "I already knew _that_ moron." Because how could you possibly confuse us? Really? I mean, unless I've come down with a serious case of multiple personality disorder, which I assure you I haven't, it goes without a doubt I am nothing like Pansy Parkinson (in my head or not). I mean, aside from the numerous IQ points which differ between us, and her, frankly alarming, range of sneers and taunts, I will just never be Pansy Parkinson.

Why?

Because Pansy Parkinson is perfect.

Okay, not really, I mean, she has the most grating, annoying voice I've ever heard to be cursed upon a person… and a frankly a-w-f-u-l attitude and work ethic… and some pretty dubious morals… and a really condescending stare, like a freaking owl or something… and a honest-to-God shitty personality… but that's beside the point and I'm letting myself get distracted. The fact is Pansy Parkinson is perfect.

What a bitch.

I mean not in a personality way, clearly, but physically? Yeah. She's all tanned skin, slim legs, perfectly straightened hair with no split ends. I mean what the hell? What's with that? I straighten my hair and I can smell burning. _Burning._ The stupid, pure-blooded, prissy princess looks like she'd fit right in strutting around a swimming pool in a white not-really-there-bikini with an empty plastic cup in a music video.

Which is why I am not Pansy Parkinson.

If you're not getting my gist, I'll explain it to you.

Firstly, I am **not** thin. I am not even the rather low size I've been telling my boyfriend. I know it's bad, but when you've got a boyfriend who dates models and you're biggest desire is to finally fit in the size X (I'm not telling you!) jeans… well; I just somehow had a… lapse in judgement. I just panicked, honestly I did. I just blurted out some size and how the hell was I supposed to know he would remember and buy me clothes for my birthday? What boyfriend does that?

I had to make Ginny do some pretty shitty alteration spells which even _I_ cringed at.

It's not that I'm a pig; I like to think I eat pretty healthily – five a day and all that. It's just that, well, when I've been working all day from six am until ten pm the most appealing thing sounds like a takeaway pizza, you know? And if it's three chocolate bars for a pound, well, that's just a steal isn't it? And it _would_ be rude to turn down my boss' gift of celebrations to me, wouldn't it? And I have to open them; otherwise it could look rude, right? So it's really not my fault, I mean, I've been planning to go on a diet for ages. I'm sure the weight will just fall of when I do.

And seriously, how am I expected to fit in a run when I'm working so much? I can barely find the time to force my boyfriend to endure 'the muggle box' with me during Emmerdale (he prefers EastEnders), let alone go running. It's not as if I'm not planning to; I've had a reminder on the fridge door for months… I just… never have the time. Honestly.

I wouldn't be bothered but I have these really horribly, really flabby thighs that should be hidden from the world; I'm like a friggin' jelly.

But no.

For the she bitch even fucking winter is bikini day. "Ohhh, let's get blobby Granger to show herself up."

Secondly, I'm so pale it's scary. Obviously my boyfriend's paler, but I'm pretty albino-ish myself. Don't get me wrong, Doritos just don't do it for me, but if I like stepped outside occasionally… well, I might not look like a cave dweller.

Thirdly…

My hair.

Is there seriously no God in this world? Can I not have one favourable attribute? Okay, so, it's not the bird nests every wanker makes it out to be, but, my God, is a bun really much to ask for? It's like coming to life.

A bun; it's a simple hair style that manages to maintain itself throughout the duration of the day without copious amounts of Sleekeazy's Hair Potion. A bun is also something I will never have.

You see, this is why I shall never be Pansy Parkinson. Not that I'd want to, mind you. Just her thighs, you know? And her hair, of course.

Anyway, you might be wondering what triggered the violent violin playing and whilst you might not, I'm going to tell you anyway.

My boyfriend, the infamous prat, used to date Pansy Parkinson. Now, obviously, any newt-brain would be able to tell that, yes, I am a much better conversationalist than Parkinson and, yes, I have the capability of a long term meaningful relationship.

That is exactly what my boyfriend should have said to me when I stormed out of our flat three hours ago after voicing doubts on Pansy's amorous intentions. No such luck. No, what did I get?

"For God's sake Granger, don't start with this tripe." Do you see that? Instant dismissal? I can feel my blood boiling just _thinking _about it.

It's not I doubt his fidelity for a moment, but I don't want that skank practically sitting in his lap whilst my friends throw me pitying glances, you know? And he should respect that, damn it!

I'm willing to further enforce that thought by sitting on this freezing, metal, green bench in this dark, little park until he comes to me and begs for forgiveness, or invites me in, either one really. (Since I left my key on the side and we have an automatic lock and there's no way in hell I'm knocking on the door, just the thought of _that_ smirk makes me shudder.) So where the hell is he?

This is honestly a good mugging spot - I could be dying here, the wanker. 'AMAZING CONVERSATIONALIST BRUTALLY MURDERED IN A PARK WHILST ARSEHOLE OF A BOYFRIEND SECRETLY WATCHES HOLLYOAKS' would be the headline. I can see it now.

Just my fucking luck, now I'm going to die.

I'm mumbling to myself angrily with my arms crossed along my body when I hear his drawl. My slapping hand is itching dangerously.

"Granger you're going to give yourself an aneurysm at this rate." I answer eloquently, of course.

"Piss off, Malfoy." For a moment I think he's going to tut and have my palm (again) reacquainted with his cheek. He doesn't though – smart boy. Actually, in truth, I don't think I could move so as to slap him; I'm pretty sure I've lost circulation in my left foot.

He slides – of course, he fucking slides – into the space next to me, smoothly. I pointedly shift away a bit, or as much as I can manage with my jeans glued to the bench and my legs seizing up. He's wrapped up I notice, unlike me, the bastard.

I really hate him sometimes.

That is until he starts winding another scarf around my neck, not his scarf obviously. He's not that romantic, more practically romantic. He doesn't understand things like that; the need for him to freeze his arse off so I can be warm. It's what they do in all the movies.

Anyway, with a bit of effort I manage to force my face muscles into a scowl - although I'm slightly worried I won't be able to move them back. I keep my eyes averted and focus on our breaths mingling together in front of us. The white mist contrasts against the dark backdrop and tree outlines.

I feel the warmth of a gloved hand on my palm as he pulls a glove onto my hand, I attempt to snatch it away angrily but he holds it firm with ease.

"Granger," he says, staring at the side of my face.

"Malfoy," I grit out between my teeth, still refusing to look at him. He grabs my other hand and I don't bother trying to stop him as he puts a glove on it: it's _warm_.

I can feel his amusement from here and it just makes me angrier. How can he take this so flippantly? If it was me with Harry, or god forbid Ron, how would he feel? For an irrational reason I feel tears pricking my eyes like needles, the water soon freezes however.

"Granger," Malfoy starts. "Y-"

"Save it Malfoy," I interrupt furiously, my cheeks somehow managing to burn with anger. "I don't care if you don't mind that she's all over you, because _I do._ You're with me, not her." Jealousy shines through my voice as a beacon in the dark. It's embarrassing really. I know I shouldn't be jealous but why does she have to go for my boyfriend? She has her own for god's sake! Some rich, pure-blooded elitist if I recall correctly from err- _yesterday_.

"Exactly Granger," he says gently, "I'm with you. I want to be with you. Not Pansy, not anyone else. You."

I don't say anything, seething quietly. Malfoy shifts up the space I created between us.

"Granger," he appeals, "Don't ignore me, please." He goes to wrap his arms around me and I don't bother moving. I keep my body stiff and uninviting, nevertheless.

"If that was Harry or Ron-" I start but he interrupts me, by pressing his mouth to mine and moulding it to the shape of my lips until I'm breathless. Git – he knows me too well.

"I know Granger; I'm a jealous, possessive sod who'd harass you about it."

"Then why-?"

"I was only letting her do all that stuff because she was trying to make somebody jealous, but if it upsets you, I'll stop her. Even if she did offer herself on a plate, I'd say no because _I love you_. No one else."

"What? Who was she trying to make jealous? Her boyfriend? Why didn't you tell me?" I ask accusingly, finally turning to look at him. Searching his face for any lies, my gaze takes in his flushed countenance and shining eyes.

"She was trying to make…" Malfoy swallows, looking a little green as if he's swallowing a particularly bitter pill. "… Weasley jealous, and let's just say her boyfriend flavour of the month was part of the plot...

"It seems I've started a trend." He says amusingly, using one hand to brush my hair out of my face. Noticing my expectant expression, he continues. "I wasn't supposed to tell anyone," he shrugs dismissively, "she was hoping he'd make the first move so no one would know she's been pining-"

"Pining?!" I exclaim, incredulously. "No way!"

"Yes way," he grins, wrapping his arm around my shoulders and tucking my head into the crook of his neck. "Why do you think she was so determined to spend every freezing day sans clothing? She was hoping the Weasel would be so overcome by hopeless lust… well, from the drooling look on his face the majority of the time, it worked." He says disgustedly. "Honestly the boy has no finesse, seriously why she'd want that oaf drooling on her…"

Glowering at his comments about my friend (even if Ron did send an extraordinary amount of time staring at her chest), I smack his shoulder. "Malfoy!"

"Granger!" He mimics, before kissing the top of my head and getting up. Once standing he offers me his hand, pulling me to my feet. "Now if you'll allow, Granger, if you can let go of a mite of your stubbornness for a moment, I'd like to get out of this freezing park and back to the pleasant warmth of our flat, how about it?" He bows his head, pressing a kiss to my gloved hand.

"You just want to watch EastEnders," I accuse as he drags me behind him.

"That I do, Granger. That I do."

And suddenly, with his hand fitting snugly in mine, being dragged through the park to EastEnders and half sliding on the semi-ice with my leg muscles locked, makes me really glad I am not Pansy Parkinson.

Not that I wouldn't still have her thighs, though. And her hair, of course.


End file.
